Love in Her Heart
by Red-Like-Lithium
Summary: Part of my "Inside the Sand" collection. No matter how little, a child always holds a piece of their mother in them.


_A/N: I do not own Naruto or it's characters, just what I'm writing._

_This is part of my "Inside the Sand" project. I'm making a collection of one-shots that center around the Sand Siblings:)_

_Enjoy~_

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Temari looks the most like her mother out of the three siblings.

She has that coarse, blonde hair that falls behind her shoulders when it isn't pulled up into four pigtails; hair that she secretly takes pride in because she knows it is Karura's blessing and not her father's curse. Even if the color is lighter, brighter than her predecessor's, it is undoubtedly her's.

But Temari has inherited more from her mother than just appearances.

She has inherited her techniques.

Every time Temari swings her iron fan and the wind cuts the air with violent speed and deadly accuracy, she remembers that her Kaa-san was a Wind Type who fought with her strength and her way of thinking. When her muscles release their power into her movement, she feels as though her parent is beside her, a _part_ of her, aiding in her potential. As the _kunoichi_ moves her body, runs into battles with agile legs, whips around at the call of her name, and wraps her arms around her brothers in an embrace when the war is over, she can always sense her mother's influence.

Temari doesn't remember Karura as well as she wants to.

She has these faint memories of gentle, loving hands brushing her hair and styling it in a way she still does to this very day. A recollection of a playful finger poking her cheek when she was pouting. The inaudible whisper of her name on lips that no longer exist.

She can't recall how her Kaa-san's voice sounded or how it felt when she hugged her. And those are things Temari wracks her mind for, things she begs herself to retain, and things that cannot be brought back.

Temari is like her mother.

She is her own, individual woman, but she is also the daughter of the 4th Kazekage's wife, a lady who she's proud to say she is related to.

And even if she knows it is impossible, Temari wants to live up to Karura's name.

That way, when she dies one day and sees her mother and is reminded of all she forgot, her origin can look back at her with pride.

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Kankurou has never thought that he's like his mom in any way.

No, Kankurou is his father, the living reincarnation of that bastard. He has his face, those eyes, that dark hair, a complexion he hides behind a mask of violet war paint. An intricate visor of pigment, a black clothe over his head- why isn't it enough?

He cannot escape his similarities to his father. That is a fact, and that will never be changed.

What comforts Kankurou, even if he believes it is a lie that his head cooked up one day, is the idea that he and his mother share preferences.

Kankurou can hardly commemorate a thing about his mother. She has always been this wispy ghost in the back of his head, an image he can never touch. She is a stranger, a woman he will probably never know, never get to experience the feeling of her hugging him.

But one thing that Kankurou can picture clearly in his mind, clearer than anything during that time, is the sight of those flowers Karura so loved nurturing. They were a sort of desert blossom, Kankurou doesn't even know the name of them. But they were a lively purple and they bloomed in a way that lit up the windowsill perfectly. As a toddler, he'd see them every morning, where he thinks his mother would water and prune them.

Karura loved lavender, lilac, periwinkle, anything even vaguely related to purple.

This is information that Kankurou has held dear since she died. It is something he will never allow himself to let slip away from his consciousness, a hint of grace he will not lose inside a mass of sins within him, sins he holds simply because he is his father's son.

That is why Kankurou drags his fingers across his face each morning, leaving behind a trail of violet dye that dries on his skin and becomes a part of him.

It's not much, but when Kankurou can bear the color his Kaa-san adored so much, he feels just a little less like the man he hates so terribly, and a little more like the woman he wishes he knew.

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Gaara is not like his mother. That's all there is to it.

Karura was kind, loving, a figment of his imagination who he knows only by Yashamaru's stories that have obscured and faded as time passed on.

And for the longest time, Karura was an evil creature who had sacrificed her spirit to ensure his eternal punishment and torture, the reason he had been manipulated by the Ichibi, Shukaku, for so much of his life. She was why he had become the murderer that stories were told about to scare children at night. Her voice was what had constantly echoed in his head when Shukaku tried to lull him to sleep, speaking in that false tone, humming tunes about affection and blood.

But no.

Looking back, Gaara is ashamed to have ever feared and despised his mother.

She had loved him, loved all of them, and yes, she had given up her life for him. He had stolen her from this world because he was a _Jinchuuiki_ who had been premature and her body hadn't been able to handle it.

Indeed, Gaara is nothing like the woman who had given birth to him.

Gaara was once a killer. Even now, with Shukaku gone, with the title of Kazekage, with the bonds of his family rekindled and stronger than they'd ever been, Gaara will never be like his Kaa-san.

Yet, even if he doesn't match her personality or her looks, had never even opened his eyes as a baby to see her, Gaara has something of her's that he cherishes.

He has Karura's love.

Each time Gaara feels the sand on his back and against his flesh stir and strike, he feels the tenderness of a lady he'd never met nuzzling his form. It is comforting, calms him, is a better lullaby than Shukaku could have ever sung.

It had taken far too many years.

But Gaara finally knows who Karura was, what she felt, why she protects him even after death.

And when he lifts his hand and summons the dusty fragments to his side, when he tastes the grit on his tongue as he gives orders to his men, when his Absolute Defense lowers in the presence of his brother and sister-

-Gaara knows his mother is there, and watches him with satisfaction in her eyes and love in her heart.

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Conflict will never stop.

Even after the Fourth Great _Shinobi_ War, conflict makes it's way into the lives of ninja everywhere. That is the way of the world, the natural law, how God decided to make things. And yet, He also gave humanity the ability to fight back.

So Temari ties up her hair and readies her iron fan-

So Kankurou applies his paint and extends his _chakra_ strings-

So Gaara raises his hand and calls forth his dusty flakes-

And the daughter and sons of a woman who watches with satisfaction in her eyes and love in her heart step forward with authority and grace and strive to live up to their mother's name.

They are the Siblings of the Sand.

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_~Finish~_


End file.
